


Confession

by MistMorpheus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Letters, M/M, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistMorpheus/pseuds/MistMorpheus
Summary: It's like we've eloped. Well, what would an elopement be without a proper confession?





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

> I binged the miniseries in two days and came up with this. Haven't read the book yet, and my knowledge in this realm is so shamefully limited, I wouldn't be surprised if I messed up...anything. *sigh*  
Constructive criticism is always welcome!

Dear Aziraphale,

I’m writing this to you because I’ve caught a cold, a bit of a fever too. I can sense my temperature steadily rising, right at this moment, which is not entirely an unpleasant feeling. I know you’d think that this body inconveniences me, that I should miracle the nuisance invented by one of my loyal and terribly boring colleagues away, but I simply don’t want to. Haven’t you been here before? Surely you have, haven’t you, considering you are, well, _you_?

Do you remember the plague? Not Pestilence the man, but that segment of history in general. (I bet you haven’t met him, but you wouldn’t have liked him anyway. Workaholic always overdoing his job, exceeding expectations, and no proper sense of humor whatsoever.) I happened to be in England at the time. Well, not exactly accidentally; I was asked to be involved, you know, to ferment, to tip things over. Turns out Pestilence was faring well—almost too well, in fact—on his own, and I wanted no part in the business anyway, so I spent most of my time lying sick. Whether I got infected intentionally or not, I can’t remember; but I definitely avoided being cured on purpose. It felt terrible, let me tell you. The black patches and the buboes would reduce one to a beast, the vomiting would milk one’s self-esteem dry, and the splitting headache was the worst part, for it keeps one sane. The catalyst of death would not be, in most cases, these corporeal pains, but despair and isolation. I nearly got to the point of discorporation myself. (_Please _do not worry; it’s over three hundred years ago, it’s over! And I was perfectly willing—I will explain.) I did not expect how difficult it would be to muster up the strength to perform a minor miracle without shaking off the damned hollowed body.

In case you don't know already, the Fire was my doing. I'm not proud of it; London had much to be desired. Still. It had to be done.

I did mind experiments, while I was sick. I figured it would feel different, to have miracles up my sleeve I could use anytime to get me out of the abysmal situation. So I did this mind experiment: I tried to pretend I was human, with no way out, doomed. See what it would feel like. However I started out I would end up thinking aboutyou. Thinking that I would never get to talk to you again makes my heart raw, frail, desperate. (I am as soft as a plushie today; blame the cold.) I would have written to you, like I do now, if there were a mobile phone handy; but that would be precocious, even for me. There were times when I was brought to the verge of tears. But then I would remember you're an angel, and I'm a demon, and I wonldn't die so easily, which promptly broke the spell.

Another reason why I'm writing all this is your bookshop. The burning of your bookshop, to be precise. I still get quite uncomfortable just thinking about it. I have (almost) always had a natural affinity with fire, given what I am, but that day I was petrified by the sight of it. It was an unbecoming sight, that of your bookshop on fire. You would never have permitted it had you been there. That was how I knew you were gone. I thought I'd lost you, Aziraphale. I thought I were better off dead. The world already had ended for me at that moment; Armageddon was of no consequence. Conceptually, I still thought it a shitty idea, warring for war's sake at the expense of _the whole fucking world_—how inane does that sound? But I hadn't got any incentive to try to stop it, not anymore, not without you. Even Alpha Centauri and the Velvet Underground and _my Bentley _(it hurts me to type, but it’s true) are rubbish without you, for Lord Byron’s sake.

You see, I'm onto something. Maybe I've waited too long. (Do not ask when it started; suffices to say that I figured out the why before the what, so I wasn’t as clever as I’d like, but still faster than you.) The thing is, I fear that I'd create a moral dilemma for you because I'm pretty sure you would like to say ditto (not being a smartarse, just being keenly observant and truthful) but you apparently can't for your (previous) side would be less than pleased, and an angelic angel like you can neither lie nor bear the consequences of not lying, and I'd hate to see you torn and pained. (Perhaps I would be _a little _pleased if _I _am at the root of your problem—after all, I'm a demon. I'm selfish. But I kept that in check, to my credit. You could praise me.) We’re both outcasts now, though. Will have to permanently be on our own side, I’m afraid. Don’t blame me if I sound too glad. Nothing whatsoever to stop us now, wouldn’t you say? They’ll evetually make a comeback, I know, but carpe diem before then. It’s like we’ve eloped. (Keep reading no matter how flustered you are. Think of me as being no better.) Well, what would an elopement be without a proper confession?

Here it comes, the confession. Brace yourself. If this goes still too fast for you, feel free to pause and make yourself a hot cocoa.

I love you. Not the capitalized great Love that your lot are hard-wired for, but the plain, magical human concoction that I am not under any circumstances supposed to feel (you would object to that, I’m sure; your tendency to still have a good word for _anybody _after all that’s happened continues to surprise me), and that any demon would sneer at and any angel in their right mind (that would exclude you, I suppose) would half-heartedly adore in a patronizing manner. But here I am, engulfed in it, literally, to the point that I can hardly breathe naturally sometimes, not that I particularly need breathing, but you’d get the point. It’s frightening sometimes to feel that I am beginning to understand you, but one would expect that, wouldn’t one? After all, it’s been six thousand years.

What does this all make me? Frankly, I don't know or care. You are both the alpha and omega of my existential crisis. Maybe I am indeed not one of them anymore; I am just

Yours,

Crowley

xxx

P.S. Each x is for a kiss. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.

P.S.P.S. I’m copying this out in cursive and feeling silly. Call me a demon, but I’m going to buy you a mobile phone and teach you to use it, whether you like it or not.

P.S.P.S.P.S. Please just stop crying already.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted at http://mistmorpheus.lofter.com/post/1d86fa96_1c656cfe7.


End file.
